Chapter Eight: Pluto the Renewer

As the light of morning edged through the curtains, Winry removed the sling and studied her handiwork carefully. The automail affixed to this patient was probably the best she had ever made – light but durable, with minimal friction between the moving joints, and almost perfectly wired. It had taken her the better part of the last few days to put the finishing touches on the limb, but in reality, it was the culmination of years of work and dedication.

It was odd, then, to think that Roy Mustang, of all the people in the world, was the recipient of what Winry considered to be her best work. His condition drew her attention away from the automail, and she studied him, concerned. He was ashen pale, and there was extensive swelling all around the port – but it was nothing out of the norm. Under her palm, his forehead felt only slightly warm – and he seemed to have fallen into a peaceful sleep. Part of that peace, she knew, was attributed to massive dosages of painkillers.

The operation was done. Roy Mustang was going to heal and move on his way.

Winry scoffed – or tried even though the sound did not come out – and readjusted the blankets, pulling them up to his chest, before turning and leaving him to rest in the darkness.

Good. He's been here for nearly a month… Leaving bloodstains all over my furniture… Insulting my cooking… Acting like the pompous, pathetic bastard that he is…

She stumbled on her way out of the room, tripping and nearly falling flat on her face. Just barely managing to regain her balance before taking the plunge, Winry forcibly lingered in the doorway, feeling idiotic even though she knew there was no one else around to witness her apparent moment of clumsiness. No one – Roy Mustang was still unconscious, and would be for the majority of the day. If he woke up groggy and drugged in the afternoon, it meant things were going well. If he woke up screaming by midmorning, that was a cause for concern – she decidedly shoved the door halfway shut behind her, and stumbled down the stairs.

It'll be quieter around here once he's gone. What if it's too quiet? Maybe I should get another dog.

Den had died two springs ago, finally succumbing to old age. Winry moved into her kitchen and spent a few moments missing him with an almost absurd depth of emotion and pouring cereal at the same time, realizing that yesterday must have unhinged her in some fundamental way; she felt like she was moving through a cloud, and while it could have just been sleep deprivation, she was wise enough to know that there was probably something else wrong, too.

It's Roy Mustang. It is always Roy Mustang.

Outside Risembool was frigidly cold and peaceful all at once – snow fluttered down in gentle ribbons from the sky, frost once again drew spider-webs along the windows, and the thermometer read well below freezing. Inside the house, by comparison, was a blazing inferno – Winry decided that Mustang needed to wait a little while before he encountered the aching pain of an automail port freezing and beginning to contract from the horrible winter cold. Ed had never complained, and nor would Mustang, but Winry knew for a fact that it did hurt.

But Roy Mustang is big jerk, and he deserves it.

Yes. A big jerk.

And that was it.

Winry sat back and unfolded the paper that she had retrieved from the icy cold snow, and skimmed through the headlines with a yawn. There was nothing interesting this time – no accusations that tried to pin her childhood friends as murderers, no old acquaintances proclaimed dead, just a bit of local news about a two-headed calf with only one head and something about the General Store's hours changing. She didn't know why, but she was expecting something groundbreaking.

Maybe I'm just being melodramatic.

Maybe it was simpler; she was looking for a distraction. Winry did not want to think about yesterday, or the month before that, or events that had transpired nearly fifteen years ago on one sunny morning in summer, when she had heard the news - I'm sorry, Mrs. Rockbell, they'd said to her Grandmother, but your son and daughter-in-law died in the line of duty – and she definitely did not want to worry that her parents, wherever they were now, hated her for this.

What would they think if they knew how I felt about the man who killed them?

Honestly… she had to admit, as strange and callous as it sounded, that she didn't really care what they would think.

She really couldn't remember much about her parents, other than their faces, and the sound of their voices, but even those memories were starting to fade away. They lacked color, the sound was distorted, and Winry had little doubt that, in perhaps five years time, even those memories would disappear.

She had been seven that year. And somehow, she believed that the one person left on the earth with the clearest memory of her parents was none other than the man that had killed them.

Winry abruptly put the paper down, after realizing she was staring at the weather report and yet not really seeing it at all. She rose to her feet and moved towards where automail parts were strewn across the living room – and unable to avoid giving that damn couch an expectant glance – Winry plopped down and began working on the wiring for a leg. Another big shipment to the East was due in a matter of days. She still had a life to lead, oddly enough, one that didn't involve waiting on handicapped alchemists.


Mid-afternoon rolled around, announcing its presence as another fierce winter storm bore down out of the North and sent an icy draft sweeping down into the chimney, extinguishing the fire. Winry slammed down a metal foot and brandished her wrench in frustration, directing her ire at both the window and the fireplace before lurching to her feet. No use trying to relight the chimney – the drafts continued to rattle the logs persuasively, sending up small plumes of ash. The house creaked in the wind; a shutter on the outside slammed shut, and the shingles started to flap.

"The weather's awful this year," Winry pointed out, to no one in particular.

Talking to myself, too. I've gone crazy.

The entire house creaked again, and Winry felt a chill lace straight up her spine. This storm wasn't fooling around at all – no, this was warfare raged with unholy fury, and Winry almost imagined the entire roof of Rockbell automail taking flight in the wind. Almost. She wasn't afraid of storms by any means, but this one meant business.

I half expect it to blow another Alchemist onto my doorstep. Like all storms seem to do around here.

Winry edged open his bedroom door moments later, after scurrying up the stairs with wrench in tow and a lantern. There was no hope for electricity - it was gone already, and probably wouldn't be back until long after the storm abated. When the door was open it cast a glow into his room, and she saw his one eye turn wearily towards her – he was awake and flat on his back, his expression pained but aware, and his single eye glazed with agony.

"…Does it hurt now?" Winry asked, knowing the answer. She didn't wait for it, either. "The painkillers are probably starting to wear off."

He closed his single eye for a moment, as Winry came to sit at his bedside. She continued to talk, her voice coming out calm, and measured. He only lingered, face expressionless, although she knew he was listening.

"…Just try to stay under the blankets, even if you're too hot. If your automail gets cold, it'll hurt way more than it does now. Does it feel cold?"

His reaction indicated that he was trying not to think of the hulking metal appendage on the right side of his body, probably even pretending it wasn't there – a brief flicker of disgust passed over his features – before he reached over with his uninjured hand and slid his fingers along the surface.

"It's slightly cool." He murmured, and after a second, a slight frown spread over his face. "I tried to move it… I can only manage to make the fingers twitch… Just a little…"

"You idiot," Winry sighed, in exasperation. "Didn't I tell you earlier not to try to move it around? You could start the bleeding again. I bet the swelling hasn't even gone down yet. It takes almost a week for most patients before they even--"

"I'm not 'most patients,'" Roy Mustang said, and he sounded like a very, very ill man making a decidedly lackluster attempt at sounding confident and cocky. "…I have to be gone in a week."

"If you're just trying to avoid the military, Havoc already took care of everything. He swapped the registration records for your watch, and--"

"No. I'm going back."

Winry froze. " What?"

"…I'm going back to the fronts."

Did I miss something?

"I thought you deserted the military."

"No." Roy shook his head slightly. "…It was just… a vacation."

"A vacation. Some vacation. Must have been real relaxing for you."

"…I'll tell them… I was captured, or… I could tell them anything, actually. They're so desperate… They'll believe whatever asinine excuse I can come up with…" Mustang paused, his single eye focusing on her with that strange intensity (which reminded her of Ed) and his expression darkening.

"So you thought… I was running away? Would you still have treated me, even if you knew I was just going back to the military?"

"Yes! Why wouldn't I?" Winry asked, astounded.

"…I thought you hated the military."

"I do," She answered, candidly. "But I'm actually glad. I was planning on giving it to you half price, but now that I know you're just going back to the battlefield, I think I'll charge you double. I don't do favors for the state for cheap, you know."

Something passed over his face – and it might have been a trace of a smirk. "...Did you make Fullmetal pay full price?"

"YES! He broke whatever we gave him, of course I charged him for it! We couldn't just give these things to him… This much solid steel isn't exactly cheap-" She said, tapping his metal upper-arm lightly.

"Well… I'm not him… I don't plan on transmuting it into a blade and waving it around like he always did…"

"He did what?" Winry asked, bristling. "…So is that how he always kept on breaking it?" She let out a weary, exasperated sigh. "No wonder. I spend hours working on the delicate balance of wiring, metals, and synthetic muscles and joints and he goes around transmuting it into weapons. I bet he made all sorts of crude things out of it – guns and swords and knives and-"

She had suspected it, of course – and knew Ed had done it to survive, but one of Roy Mustang's favorite subjects, she discovered, was mocking the Fullmetal Alchemist. It was one of her favorite pastimes, too, and it reminded her of another stormy night.

That must have been it. He was determined to live through it, but he was in so much pain… I stayed with him the entire night… It was then.

"—He probably would have died about a dozen times if not for his arm and his leg, though." Mustang said.

Winry paused, surprised by the man's sudden change in demeanor, before sighing softly.

"…I know… All those years I thought he didn't appreciate them at all, but I know better, now. He was just…couldn't say something like that. It was just Ed's way, I guess." Winry paused. "…He was a lot like you."

Mustang scoffed weakly. "Please."

"No, really! You're both Alchemists…"

"…So are many other people, not just Fullmetal and I--"

"—You're both in the military--"

"—Along with a thousand other alchemists--"

"—And you're both stubborn. You're both jerks, and you're both impossible. Absolutely impossible. And over-confident. And a little arrogant, too. But…Both of you are also…"

"…You miss him."

Did he just totally miss the point? Winry wondered.

"…Yes…I do. I miss him and Al."

Mustang looked at her intently, before refocusing on the ceiling. "…He'd do anything for his younger brother…"

That sounded like a warning. Winry felt a chill – Mustang's expression was strange, and she was thinking of that night. Ed, who had been without Al… Mustang, who had been without Hawkeye… Two powerful alchemists, both missing the one thing that probably kept them from insanity…

"…General…" Winry began, and he continued, still looking up at the ceiling as he spoke.

"…Listen… Ms. Rockbell…"

"Just call me Winry," She said, almost vaguely exasperated. She had spent a month feeding him and yelling at him and had drilled holes in his bones and attached electrical wires to his nerves – there was really no need for any kind of formality between them.

"…You can call me Roy, then," He replied, off-handedly. "But… About that night… When I lost my arm…"

Winry swallowed, and bit her lip nervously. He was going to tell her – he was finally willing to tell her. And yet?

She didn't really need to hear it, because the look on his face said it all.

I was right. He remembers now, and I was right.

Oh god…I wanted to be right a month ago because I thought it would prove a point, but now…

"No." Winry cut him off. "…Just answer two questions for me."

Roy paused, and looked at her, his dark eye slightly widened.

"…Where was Ed?"

He looked at her with a gaze that was utterly fathomless… Before, finally, he looked back towards the ceiling. "…I thought about… Trying to sacrifice him… I did. But…"

"But you didn't try anything like that, did you?"

"…No. I-"

"Is he alive?"

"…Yes. But--"

"That's all I need to know. You don't have to tell me about the rest." The logistics – the exact events of that night – where nothing Winry wanted to know and nothing he really needed to say. Instead they both had to move on and try to forget and forgive, even if it wasn't always entirely possibly. Winry watched Roy, as he stared at the ceiling and seemed to ponder the designs in the paint, before he suddenly closed his eye.

"…She died in my arms," He said, as if it explained everything.

The idiot. Nonetheless, as much as he fought against it – so hard that he had practically stopped breathing – there was something damp on his face. Winry amended her earlier thoughts - yes, he can't be strong all the time – but he sure tries to be.

The idiot.

Winry slid her hand under the blankets and found his remaining left hand – and, after forcibly prying it away from the automail port where the swelling was – she clutched it in hers with the strongest grip possible. Mustang's expression did not change, and his voice was amazingly flat.

"…It's too hot in this room." He murmured As if sweat could account for all the dampness on his face.

"…She's worth it, don't you think?" Winry asked, almost – almost – daring to be sardonic when confronted with his ever-so-obvious display of emotion – until she realized how much it was affecting her, too.

He's even worse than Ed.

At least Roy was trying now – shedding tears for his first lieutenant, and maybe just for himself, too.

Winry pretended to ignore him for a moment, although she knew that her fingers tightening around his gave the act away.


After one stormy night and six days of sunny clear weather, Winry groggily awoke – mumbling, rubbing at the imprint her wrench had made in her face – to hear the sound of the front door of the house opening. Alarmed by the sound – thinking that it was the military, or Havoc, or maybe even Ed – she jerked out of bed immediately, fumbling about for clothing and slippers in a rush and practically falling to her knees. The wrench clunked against the floorboards and she nearly twisted her ankle on the way to the closet, before stampeding down the stairs.

There was plainly no one in the house – Rockbell Automail felt silent, and empty. A raw, sudden rush of panic sent Winry racing back up the stairs and kicking open his door.

That idiot, he wouldn't just… He wouldn't…

But he had. Roy Mustang was not in his bed. Winry slammed her fist against the doorframe (the old decaying wood gave, but not before splintering and causing several sharp, stabbing little prickles of pain) and whirled around, donning her coat from the upstairs closet before nearly flying down the stairs, in slippers and mismatched clothes, nearly panicking.

That stupid idiot, Why would he just…

"ARGGHHHHHHHHHHH!" A nearly bestial roar escaped Winry's mouth when she saw that his cloak was gone from where it had been crumbled in the entry way for over a month. She had washed it, of course, secretively, and tossed it back where it had been, but she had also wanted to make an attempt at sewing it for him before his departure. But that was the least of her concerns.

I hate Roy Mustang. I hate him I hate him I hate him I hate him

She kicked open the door and moved down the steps, stumbling. There was no one as far as she could see, but it had only been a few minutes, and he was probably just over the crest of the hill.

I hate him I hate him I hate him

His recovery was going well, or as well as it could – he still wore a sling around his automail to help his wounded shoulder support the weight, and there were bandages about the port, keeping the bleeding to a minimum. He had learned to change the bandages on his own, and was currently on a heftily prescribed dose of painkillers that made his days (and nights) more bearable, too. Best of all, he could already move his hand just a little bit – it might take months, maybe even a year – but he would have full range of motion in his automail, once the swelling went down. She had already came perilously close to hitting him over the head with her wrench for trying to move the entire arm several times, before it was properly healed, but inwardly she was impressed that he was healing so swiftly.

I still hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate hate hate hate Roy Mustang for leaving and being a bastard and-

Winry dashed along the lane, carefully avoiding snowdrifts and aware that her slippers were going to be ruined. How stupid, she was, for rushing after an idiot through the snow and ice when she knew it would probably be better to just let him go. But her sprint continued, and she saw no trace of him… Past the graveyard… To the train station…

She stumbled, pitching forward from the momentum as she tried to come to an abrupt, complete stop. The graveyard, on a hill overlooking the river valley below, was small and homely, but not uninhabited. To her great shock, someone was standing and looking at one of the graves.

Even from afar, she recognized the eye patch, the hair, the sling... Winry stared for a good minute, before storming towards the graveyard, carefully avoiding the deeper snow drifts and aware that she was probably unlucky to get frostbite or hypothermia by running out here after him. He hadn't yet noticed her presence.

He didn't have his little sack of belongings with him, and Winry realized she'd probably jumped to an unfair conclusion – he'd said seven days and this was only six. He really was a man of his word – when he chose to be – and now it seemed like this had all been one big irritating false alarm. Winry moodily stormed up to him, and paused.

She didn't need to look – the graveyard was intimately familiar to her – because she already knew where he was standing. Had someone told her that Roy Mustang was going to the graveyard, she could have guessed that he would be standing there – right above her parent's graves.

He was quiet, unmoving. Winry didn't know if he was aware of her presence or not, but she found herself fascinated by the expression on his face. It was like he was having some kind of staring match with the gravestone – his single eye was narrowed, his mouth was drawn in a thin line, and he appeared to be in pain.

Of course the idiot was in pain. The cold was probably freezing his automail and half freezing him to death, although Winry knew - instinctively - that wasn't the only explanation. No, problems with Roy Mustang – or any alchemist, in Winry's experience – were never quite that easy. She watched, until finally, the expression on his face lightened and some of the intensity faded. Now he was just looking at the grave stone sedately, with the more usual Roy Mustang expression. Distant, searching, vaguely confident, composed and maybe even a little bored…

Did he apologize?

No. Winry didn't think so. They both knew that it was far too late in the game for apologies to mean anything. Was he just here to torture himself? Winry didn't think that was out of the realm of possibility. She frowned, before finally trudging up to him through the dark and cold. He didn't look up as she neared – he, of course, had probably sensed her presence all along, smelled her out like the dog he was – but he did speak, in a low tone.

"…1907. It's been a long time." He commented.

What does that have to do with anything? Winry wondered – although she saw that he looked uncomfortable, and was probably just making an attempt at small talk. Roy Mustang seemed quite unsuited to it, though, and quickly gave it up. Instead, he looked at her with that burning gaze of his, and waited.

"…I thought you'd left or something." Winry finally said. "You could have at least told me that you were stepping out."

He shrugged his good shoulder. "I figured you'd get mad."

"I'm not mad."

His eye dropped, focusing on her wrench – she was holding it at her side and squeezing so tightly that her knuckles had lost their color. Winry flushed and stuffed it back in her pocket, and a slight smirk spread over his features. Her eyes moved towards the gravestones – and she saw his smirk immediately fade, as he was abruptly reminded of their situation. Instead of saying anything, Winry came to stand besides Roy Mustang, and together, they looked at the graves.

He had that strangely intent look on his face again, Winry saw, giving him a sidelong glance. He said nothing, and didn't move his gaze away from the graves.

For a while, they just stood – breath chilling when it hit the cold, cold air, and Winry closer to him than she would have ever liked to have admitted. She was thinking – oddly – in terms of the future. Someday, perhaps, she'd stand here with a husband or a fiancée, probably in the spring time, and when he asked she would explain how she had lost her parents. He would then give her one of those sad vapid looks and maybe say a few meaningless words (an apology, for instance), and she would immediately feel awkward and have to change the subject. With Roy Mustang, there was just standing, staring, and understanding.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not.

After a moment, Winry let out a shuddering breath – it was too cold out here, and he had to be feeling it even more acutely than her.

"We should go back."

"…Right."

Neither of them moved.

If my parents really were watching… She began, but trailed off. They weren't. They were dead and gone, and the dead did not bother themselves with the affairs of the living. She had came to this gravestone many times with the idea of paying homage to her parents, but now a strange little idea seeded itself in her mind, and began to grow with each passing moment.

Pretend for a moment that they can see me, Winry thought. They can see that I've grown. They can see that I'm no longer a little girl who cries for them every night. They can see…

Him. Winry first thought that maybe, if they could see, they'd believe she was mocking them, by dragging that same pathetic young soldier who had committed the crime back to them, but on second thought, she knew her parents. Roy Mustang had came of his own accord, something that took obvious courage – and the fact that he still dared to stand here, with her at his side, spoke strongly of his character now.

Winry lingered by his side for a moment longer, before turning. She accidentally brushed against him, and it probably jarred his automail in an uncomfortable manner.

And now they were looking at one another. He had that same expression on his face as he had when he'd been looking at their grave, and now Winry recognized it – he trying to reconcile something inside, trying to ask her something… Looking to her for permission, out of all the bizarre things in the world… And when Winry didn't move he stepped closer – it was not altogether graceful, as he was obviously still weak from his surgery, the painkillers coursing through his blood, and the automail limb weighing down his right shoulder. His hand went to her shoulder – the real hand – and he studied her with a cocked head.

His look changed - and Winry recognized this expression, too. This one said that he was in familiar territory, that he had performed this act dozens of times. Winry narrowed her eyes – she had heard Ed grouse about the Colonel's alchemic code, how he described countless liaisons with seemingly hundreds of women (real or imagined) in that code, with all the grim, superfluous details…

But the look faded when he suddenly seemed to realize just who she was, and where he was. Roy Mustang almost visibly wilted right in front of her.

...He really is an idiot.

For a moment, all she could focus on was the fact that, when leaning forward and grabbing his collar, she had practically slammed her forehead against his nose – but when she tilted her head forward and he bent slightly, the thought vanished immediately.

This is weird.

It was. His lips were warm and so was the rest of him – maybe he had a fever now - and they were altogether too close. She could feel his heartbeat, his breathing, and the jarringly cold surface of his automail even through layers of clothing… But the contrast was not altogether unpleasant, instead serving as a reminder of all that had transpired to bring them here. Her eyes were closed, but the vision of him – the almost endearing surprise, followed by an even more endearing look of confidence - because he was Roy Mustang, and Roy Mustang drew women towards him with magnetic charm and good looks wherever he went – as she had pulled him close was burned into her mind. Because of the cold, everything else except her lips and fingertips felt numb.

This is really, really weird.

They were standing not five feet away from her parents' graves.

That thought was jarring just like the cold of his automail, only worse – almost bad enough to make her shove away from him. But when she thought of her parents' grave, of his automail, of the black patch that covered half his face, of all the scars scattered across his spare frame, of the nights she had spent crying for them, and that one night when the storm had blown him onto her porch…

Both of us have sacrificed entirely too much for this moment. Let's make it last.

It didn't – not for long. He drew back, and gave her an utterly unreadable look. She met his gaze, evenly, aware that her cheeks were probably a deep, deep shade of red.

"…We're both going to die of hypothermia." Winry finally said, grumpily. "…My feet are cold, and your arm is probably ready to freeze out of its socket. Let's go back."

As they trudged through snow and across the lane, back towards Rockbell Automail, Winry decided, for the moment, to let everything else go and just not think, because thinking was painful when she knew that, in a day's time, remembering this moment and all that had just happened would only cause even more pain.


Winry slept fitfully through the night, but she didn't bother checking in on him – usually around midnight she rose and went to examine his bandages, if only to make sure he hadn't rolled into a position that would have put unneeded pressure on his automail. He hadn't the last several nights, though, and Winry doubted he would now – he probably wasn't sleeping either. When morning came, the bed in the other room creaked, and she let out a sigh.

He was going to leave at the crack of dawn. With an irritated scowl (why doesn't he just wait until after lunch?) Winry jerked out of bed and stumbled to the closet. She paid little attention to clothing, but somehow managed to make sure everything matched, before – with a yawn and some much needed grumbling – she headed down the stairs.

Mustang was in his uniform – it was freshly laundered, although it still seemed worn and faded. He looked the same – clean, a little healthier, but still weary and oddly jaded.

"…You really shouldn't leave this soon," Winry said.

"…I'll stay close to the med tent, once I get back to camp," He said, and he tapped the stars and stripes on his shoulder, an unneeded reminder of his rank. "…They know I'm valuable – they won't send me anywhere too risky."

"…Aren't you going to be punished, though?"

"I doubt it. I can concoct a number of stories for them to believe." He replied. "…I don't have any kind of record – other than killing our nation's leader, of course-" He said, with a wry smirk, "—so there shouldn't be any real problem."

"…You're sure you can make it all the way to their camp?"

"It's only a few miles east. I'll be careful." He pulled on his white glove, and she saw it – the array, sewn carefully into the back of his glove. Winry looked at it, and a sudden strange suspicion entered her mind.

"…General – I mean, Roy. Do you even need the array?" She asked.

The question took him by surprise, and he looked towards her. Winry said nothing and looked right back – she had been around alchemists, like Izumi and Ed, long enough to know that there was some connection between those who attempted to transcend God's territory and survived and those who could simply clap and do alchemy without a circle.

His assessing gaze softened. "…I could." He said. "…But I won't."

There were a few glaring differences between Roy Mustang and Edward Elric, and one of them was that Mustang hadn't believed that alchemy was the way to solve his problems in a long, long time. She supposed that was for the best – if he really did believe in the wonders of alchemy, than he would be yet another Central Bureaucrat craving power and secretly desiring the Philosopher's Stone.

…Said Stone, of course, was now illegal to research, illegal to pursue, and illegal to attempt to produce. Red Water mining was outlawed in all areas, and any alchemist suspected of attempting anything in the field was offered an unappealing life sentence in jail. When the Fuhrer had fallen, and Parliament had taken over, Roy Mustang was among the many that had pushed and lobbied endlessly for that law to be enacted.

Winry opened her mouth again to speak, but Mustang cut her off, as he began stuffing his meager supplies – painkillers, medication, and oil for his joints – carelessly into his knapsack.

"—Ed was the one who saved me. I guess he could tell what I was about to do – we're both sick people, after all, and I suppose our minds really do travel down the same paths. I-"

"…General. You don't have to-"

"It's Roy." He said, stiffly. "No. You should know this." Mustang straightened up slowly – he was still in pain, and should have been in bed, really – his movements were weak, and graceless. After seven pathetically short days of healing after the surgery he was still in pain.

If might be a miracle if he makes it to the camp in one piece.

"…Ed wanted his brother back. I wanted her back. We both must have considered something idiotic that night, like using one another in the transmutation – but we both turned back, and parted ways. He must have noticed that I headed off in the wrong direction… I still don't remember every detail," Mustang admitted, "…But you were right. I tried."

Winry frowned miserably. "I'm sorry…"

"For what?"

For being right, she thought, but she didn't say it. He ignored it, and continued.

"…Fullmetal really is a brilliant alchemist… He managed to interrupt the transmutation before I ended up getting sucked into it. I didn't make anything… There was no body, or homunculus… The gate just took my arm. I must have gained something from it… I don't know what."

Winry didn't address that particular point, but instead, she frowned. There were parts of his story that still didn't make sense. "…What happened after that? Where did Ed go? Ed wasn't hurt, was he?"

"…I don't know. He left after that." Mustang said – and on his face, there was a strange look, one that unsettled Winry. She did not recognize it, but it didn't last – he abruptly turned away. He almost swayed where he stood, and Winry had the sudden, almost hysterical fear that something horrible was going to happen if he did leave now. She swallowed it – what did it matter? There was no changing it, and she didn't want to believe in every silly little intuition she had. Instead, he turned towards her, his expression strange…

…She didn't quite meet his eyes.

"…Winry."

Surprised by his daring, that he had actually said her first name, she looked up at him. He still looked half-dead on his feet, even in his uniform, and the sling around his arm only made him look more pathetic. They studied one another, Winry with a feeling of unease, and him expressionless.

Finally, he spoke. "…Sorry. I'm not Ed."

And, with a final nod – as if to say goodbye, despite it all – he turned and limped out the door and off her porch.

Stricken into silence, Winry watched him go.

He thinks… Does he actually think…?

Oh God.

She wanted to run after him and slap him, yell in his face, and inform him that he was wrong. She was not using him as a replacement for Edward Elric… And how he could even think that …

But self-doubt and a kind of strange revulsion overcame her. All this time…

Maybe I was waiting for Ed.

After all, as she watched his back recede into the distance, she kept on thinking of Ed, of the many times she had seen his back recede, and had studied the curve of his shoulders and the slight unevenness in his stride due to the automail… Winry didn't run after him, because she knew, by now, it was pointless.

That strange look on his face when I asked about Ed…

Winry felt a sudden surge of half-hearted hatred. Roy Mustang was selfish, a bastard, charming, selfless, ridiculous, petty, insecure, over-confident, idiotic, brilliant, and a moron all in one package, and it was never more clear than now. He deserved to be whacked over the head with a wrench, and she hoped he ended up tripping half a dozen times on his way to the Eastern Military camp. Winry almost screamed over him… Almost went sprinting along the lane as she had this morning…

But his slightly swaying form had already disappeared over the edge of the hill beyond Rockbell Automail.


"You fucking idiot…" Edward Elric slapped him evenly across the face with automail, and Roy knew he deserved it. After trying something so stupid, and repulsive… He didn't reprimand the boy, or say anything, really. His head buzzed with an eerie static, and he kept on seeing it in his mind, the looming doors opening to claim him…

Right before someone had came and grabbed him, yanking him back into reality before it swallowed him completely. Only his arm was gone. Now Edward Elric slapped him again, and began putting pressure to his injured side.

"…Fullmetal…" He murmured.

"You really are the biggest son-of-a-bitch in the world, Mustang," Ed hissed. "You are one stupid, stupid fuck. Why did you think…? Why in the hell…?"

"…No… You're right…" Even now, Ed looked at him, startled by the admission. Roy continued to shiver. "…Th…Tha…Thanks…"

"Just shut up," Ed groused, angrily. "Hold still…, this looks horrible," Ed swore. "…Your blood is all over… Damn it! I couldn't pull you back before you--"

"No. It's all right. I deserve this…" Roy murmured. He felt so tired, as if the entire world was crushing him. Now he understood a number of things he hadn't before. No, that wasn't true – he already knew that Lieutenant Hawkeye was dead, but one moment of cowardice, of utter foolishness…

Yes. He deserved these wounds… Although, it was strange… He was beginning to forget, as the night grew foggy around him. He couldn't remember drawing the array, and he couldn't remember much of anything that had led up to this. All he knew was that, where there should have been a right arm, there was nothing.

"…Fullmetal… You should leave… If the army finds you… If anyone else sees you…"

"People already saw me." Ed snapped, angrily.

"…Just Havoc… But… If someone else does… They'll think…" Roy swallowed. He was weak and his head hurt – it was hard to speak. "They might think…"

"Everyone's going to think I did something to you, anyway," Ed grumbled. "I mean, they blamed Liore on me. Why not this too? Why the hell not?"

"…Fullmetal…"

"Just shut the hell up and listen, Colonel. I'm going to go look for Al," Ed said, as he continued to pressure the wound. "…Those two dumb asses are coming. Havoc and Breda." There was still something eerie and broken in Ed's eyes… He was looking for Al, and Roy didn't know why. "I want you to--"

"—What happened to Al?" Roy asked, weakly.

"…That doesn't matter… Not to you, anyway. I'm leaving you here before they see me. I don't need those idiots wasting my time – not any more than you already have – and I don't want to be forced back into service, either. You remember my automail mechanic? Winry? She's the best. Go get yourself an arm, move on, and forget this ever happened."

"I don't think… I'm going to…" Roy trailed off. "Fullmetal. Tell the others--"

Another stinging slap jarred him back to reality. "Shut up. You're not going to die. You're bleeding, but you won't die. Just do as I say."

"…You little brat," Roy spat out, voice slightly stronger than before, and Ed only smiled in a sickly fashion.

"…You're as pathetic as I am," He said, before rising to his feet.

His footsteps receded, but only minutes later, he heard Havoc swearing almost incoherently and Breda's heavy footsteps pounding in his direction. Roy closed his eyes.

Rockbell Automail… I couldn't go there… Doesn't Ed realize…?

But then, Roy Mustang realized – as Havoc and Breda performed first aid – that he wanted to run, and hide, and not be seen… he wanted to be away from it all, and even if he had to be faced with his demons – the faces of those two doctors, who he had so brutally murdered – every time he looked at their daughter, it was better than having to endure this… The sense of loss and terror… The continual suffering of the battlefield…

"Sir… Let's get you back to camp," Havoc said, moving Roy, trying to get him up, back on his feet.

"…No." Roy said, firmly. "I'm not going back…"

He heard their gasps, but everything seemed to be fading away… He was going into shock, probably, and now even Ed's face was beginning to blur in his mind… Along with everything else…

He wondered if the feeling of forgetting everything was the same feeling as being forgiven.


It had been three months since she had last seen an alchemist… Since Roy Mustang had left in the cold of winter, the days had lengthened, the temperatures warmed, and the warm breezes had returned from the South. Winry had continued to work on automail, fulfilling shipments and sending them off to the military, and really wondering if anyone who received automail on the fronts really survived long, anyway. Sometimes she even wondered if one particular alchemist had already broken his automail – perhaps from a rogue shell blast or perhaps from an enemy's alchemy – but such thoughts only lead her mind down a path she was pointedly trying to avoid. She didn't want to think about him. Instead, she thought about Ed and Al, and continually wondered if she was ever going to see them again.

Maybe it was pathetic, or sad, or weak… But Winry was content to wait for them to come, and, in a more practical sense, far too busy to go out and look for them. She imagined the day when the Elrics returned – both full in body and in mind – and realized how unlikely it was. As far as she gathered, fate, god, or whatever the hell it was, had conspired to rip the two brothers apart continually for as long as they both lived.

She'd considered Roy's last words to her more than she would have wanted to admit, but that only made her wonder more. What were her reasons, anyway, for having any kind of regard for him? Was it just because he reminded her of Ed?

…And when she looked in the mirror, and thought of the role she had played in his life, was it just because she reminded him of Hawkeye?

…Were they just using one another?

Winry didn't want to think about it or know the truth. She really didn't want to ever see him again.

It was now a balmy afternoon in mid-February and she was going through the same old act.

Try to think of Ed, Al, and old friends like Sciezka, Maria Ross and Denny Broche, Panina, and others… But when his face flashed through her mind, Winry tossed an automail hand across the room in a sudden outburst of pent up frustration. The hand wasn't going well, either – there was something slightly stiff in the pinky, and the circuits were rubbing together in a strange manner. All the problems with it were minor, not really worthy of an outburst… And the automail didn't even need adjusting in the first place, really…

…But she needed tiny things, little things, all to distract her from what she was thinking, from the continual waiting. That was the best.

She rose to her feet and padded over to the hand, bending over and picking it up. In the light, she studied it, and thought of him again.

I probably never will see him again. That was good. That was a reassuring thought.

As she moved back to the table and sat down, casting a glance at the clock – it was now five thirty – a knock on the door interrupted her steady stream of thoughts. A startle-reflex overcame her, before she relaxed – it wasn't like she had any contraband material in the house, or contraband alchemists – and abandoned her work, and headed towards the door. When she wrenched it open, her heart damn near leapt into her throat.

He was wan, tired, and his face was thinner and longer than she remembered – but she recognized him immediately. Under a layer of dirt and grime, and with a strangely sad look in his burning gold eyes, was Edward Elric.

"Ed!" Winry couldn't contain herself. Lunging forth she threw her arms around his neck, and he, predictably, balked and started backpedaling, furiously.

"Winry!" He said, his voice slightly gruffer than before and still recognizable, still Ed. "…Take it easy… Jeez…" She could almost sense him blushing beneath the grime. Winry drew back with a smile, and looked around expectantly.

"Where's Al?" A moment later, she knew that she could have answered the question herself. Ed's face, which had been cautiously optimistic before, was dark and foreboding now.

"…Al's not here." Ed said, softly. "Listen. I need an adjustment in my arm. Something's squeaking inside of it – and I can't close the fingers all the way. Would you mind taking a look at it?"

This was the Ed she had feared – an Ed without Al. And Al… Winry still kept on looking for him, as if he was suddenly going to appear out of nowhere. She felt too numb to cry – and if she did, she somehow knew that Ed would only look away and pretend not to see it, probably while rolling his eyes. He was always like that…

…Another stubborn, arrogant alchemist, with a burden far too heavy for his own shoulders.

Blinking back wetness, Winry nodded. "Sure. We can do it right in here – I've got all my tools out."

Ed, without further adieu, tossed off his cloak and jacket, before throwing himself roughly along the ground and stretching his arm out. Winry knelt above him and began examining, searching for the root of the problem. They were silent for a long while… Before, finally, Ed spoke.

"Winry. Did the Colonel ever show up here?"

Winry felt a sudden rage, directed at that man who was hopefully hundreds of miles away, but she swallowed it, careful to keep her voice even. "He did."

Ed said nothing more. For a while, she adjusted some of the screws along the outer exterior of Ed's automail – sure enough it was in absolute disrepair, as if it hadn't been maintained for years. Winry continued to adjust, as Ed let out a low sigh.

"Ed… Where were you?" Winry finally asked, her voice low. "And where is Al?"

"…You wouldn't believe me even if I told you." Ed murmured, quietly.

"But what about Al?" This must have been painful for him, but Ed was used to it. Winry watched his expression change, as she readjusted the wiring inside one automail finger, before, finally, Ed spoke.

"…He brought me back to Amestris."

"…He did? How did he--"

"—But he's not here any more."

Winry fell deathly silent.

There was no more conversation between them. Winry knew that Ed was going to try to get Al back from wherever he had gone, and she was going to let him. There was nothing else worth saying, anyway – he wasn't going to tell her where he had been and where he was going, and Winry understood. That was Edward Elric. Alchemists were strange, secretive people, after all.

Al…

He, for once, did not comment, but he must have noticed her tears.

It was strange. This wasn't what she had expected at all – for Edward Elric to return, and for everything to make sense again. Instead, she felt more bewildered than ever, especially when he abruptly rose to his feet after she finished and pulled his cloak and jacket back on. Without further adieu, Ed started towards the door.

"Ed!" Winry called.

He paused, and turned back. His expression was serious, but there was something grateful in it, too. "Thanks, Winry." He didn't blush this time.

"Wh… Where are you going?"

"…I'm going to Al." He said, quietly. "…When I find him, we'll both come back. But don't wait for me, Winry. I'm sorry. It'll be a while."

And Winry smiled. "I understand."

As she watched Edward Elric recede into the distance, his form growing smaller and smaller, Winry knew suddenly and acutely that she was still going to be here in Risembool, making automail and sending it to the fronts, and all the while, she was going to wait.

I looked at him and saw Ed sometimes. He looked at me and saw Riza Hawkeye a few times, too. Maybe we were both just using one another? Maybe that's what he thought, and I must have thought that at some point, too.

They were both wrong. She knew that, and he would figure it out, eventually.

Winry considered it, and smiled bitterly as Ed disappeared over the horizon.

All this time. The last three months.

I was waiting for Roy.

She would wish for another storm.